by Carol May
Love, Lies and Shattered Hearts
The Charli Jensen Story
Carol May
Book 2
Life’s Second Chances Series
Copyright © November 2015 by Carol May
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Love, Lies and Shattered Hearts
The Charli Jensen Story
Chapter 1
Charli Jensen
“NO! You are wrong. He isn’t dead.” I shout.
My eyes dart around the room searching for any possible way to escape from this medical prison. The average person would say I am lucky to be in this ICU room. The seat belt failed I was ejected. That is the only reason I am alive. These blue-tan walls are a constant reminder of just how lucky I am. “I know, he is somewhere in this hospital. Just let me see him. You are wrong! Let me out of this bed!” I yell as I try to move my hands but these black cuffs won’t let me. I have asked every person that enters this room if he is really dead. They all have said to me in one way or another, “Honey, I am so sorry but yes he is.”
I still can’t believe that I am wrong. He died. I try to get up but all of these wires, are tying me down. Looking up into a face that is not much older than mine I beg, “Please, tell me the truth. Please.” Tears are streaming down my face in rivers that mirror the sorrow I feel.
“Ms. Jensen, please lay down and try to get some rest,” she says wiping the tears from my eyes since I can’t raise my hands.
Anyone within hearing distance of this room knows I’m alive. They can hear my heart racing a million miles an hour because of that damn monitor hovering above my head. Closing my eyes, I mumble to the room, “Isn’t there a volume control?” It’s going crazy. Beep, beep, beep. I don’t want to hear it. It is a reminder that I am alive and he is not. When something is broken it isn’t suppose to work. My heart is broken. Why is it working?
“No sir, I’m afraid she isn’t awake now." That's what she thinks, I can hear every word that evil person in blue is saying. I simply can't find the energy to open my eyes. Lying here listening to her discuss me in a cold unfeeling voice, as if I am some type of object, not a woman that is wounded. My wounds extend deeper than my physical body. My soul is wounded, my heart that houses the love I once had is shattered.
"Sir, I am very sorry to report that she has been combative again today. Her restraints had been removed sometime before my arrival, unfortunately she has tried to pull out her IV’s more than once. The doctor decided she must remain restrained until she stops pulling them out. Please forgive me for saying so, she certainly is strong willed. Yes, Sir I know it must be difficult for you to be there. Each time the sedative wears off, the fighting to get up and the yelling begins. Yes, when she is awake, she is in quite a bit of pain. She refuses to accept the truth.”
Their voices are getting further and further away. I can’t hear … We’re walking on the beach. I’m laughing at the playfulness we are caught up in. It’s as if nothing can touch us. I stop to look in the clear shallow water at the shells that are being washed ashore. Bending over, I try to pick up a brightly colored one but my arms are like rubber. Suddenly the water is a light shade of pink. Pulling my hand back, I see it is bleeding. The blood is running down my arm in a steady stream. I can’t see where it is coming from.
I am half lying on top of something hard. Struggling to open my eyes, I find that the air around me is filled with a thick, gray smoke that burns them, causing me to close them immediately. I have no idea where I am or the reason I can’t move. Somewhere off in the distance, I hear someone. Whoever it is, they sound very far away. That loud popping sound makes it difficult to hear. I can barely make out that it is a man’s voice. Through the moans I hear a faint, “Help.”
Reaching out to the side, I pat the bed. I can move my arm. No restraints! It was only a dream. No not a dream but a nightmare. Unfortunately, the real life nightmare that I lived through was so much worse. Throwing the cover back to stand, I sway just a little. Squinting just a little, I ask, "What are you doing way over there? You should be here with me, " as I look from Jack (I think that is correct) to my bed.
It is difficult to believe that I have spent the last four days with him. Trying to shake my head just a little questioning if I have really been in this shabby room, that long? It really isn't important. Actually, at this point I really could care less. All I care about is forgetting. Forgetting the way, that bastard, Houston Donovan, whispered my name when he would pull me close to him. "Charli." Even now, my body is beginning to betray my mind.
I want to forget the way my heart would pound when he entered the room. How simply seeing a picture of him, would make me smile. I am trying to erase from my memory the level of desire he could push me to. The way my body aches for him, even as I now know he is untouchable. That he is not the man, I believed him to be.
With something close to a sneer, I say, "There you are baby." Finally, reaching the object of my desire, taking the long hard length in my hand, I articulating as best as I can, "You won't ever leave me, will you?"
Staggering back to bed, with the bottle in my hand, I lean back against the headboard studying it. Pulling up closer to my eyes to study the square shape of it, I wonder why this shape? Anything to get my mind off the bastard. My physical eyes might be looking at a bottle but my mind’s eye sees him sitting at the end of that table. How Houston sat looking ahead. The way his jaws were clenched to match the tightness of his fists. The painful look that seemed to be etched onto his perfect face, when he turned to say those horrible words to me, “I’ll always love you.” In anguish, I yell out to the empty space of this lonely room, “Love, you. Right! How could you be married to another woman but promise to love me for the rest of our lives? Houston Donovan you are a pure bastard! I hate you!”
Unscrewing the top, I raise the bottle to my lips. I stopped drinking from the standard plastic hotel cup a couple of days ago. Besides, I hated the sound it made because I held it so tight in my hands I thought it might break. The crackling of it reminded me my heart was shattered into a million pieces.
Whew! The smell. I toss as much back as I can, feeling the burn all the way down my throat. What was it Houston called it? Snapping my fingers, to an empty room I say, “That’s right, good old sour mash whiskey from the state of Kentucky.” Except, according to what I read on the black label, my whiskey was made just a little further south in Tennessee by a man named Jack. Well, not actually by him, since I’m sure he is long since deceased.
Part of me wants to curl up in the bed just a bit longer, oh say the rest of my life. If I could find the courage to listen to my little voice that is somewhere in my head saying, four days in this semi-decent motel mourning over a man is long enough, I would leave this room, this place but I am just not ready. I pick up the remote. Staring at the dark television looking but not seeing. Sliding my fingers over multiple buttons, I am reminded of Houston’s remotes especially the one in the closet. Why the closet, I have no idea unless it is because of the mornin
g he ask me to go into the closet and get a specific pair of underwear for him. I pushed those buttons and drawers of clothing for me immediately came on display, not his things. I remember turning toward the bedroom, and there he stood in all of his sexiness leaning against the door frame smiling. "Baby, you don't have any excuse now about not having your things here. At that moment, I fell deeper in love with him. The bastard!
My mind wanders to the man not his remotes. The way his curly, no his wavy, milk chocolate hair lays on his neck. How his muscular arms felt when he would wrap them around me as we stood outside just watching a sunrise. Sometimes, that sunrise would be after a night of intense pleasure but other times we would see the sunrise because we wanted to begin our day with the sun peeking out at us over the Atlantic. Secretly I think, that was Houston’s calm before the storm days. He always knew what his schedule held for the day, it was as if watching the sunrise was his way of preparing for whatever battle laid ahead of him.
My head/heart feel as if the rest of my body is betraying them. My head knows that my heart is shattered but the remainder of me longs for Houston’s touch, the caress of my breast, the slow moving of our bodies. The way he would slowly, almost completely pull out of me. Leaving only the tip of himself inside me. Just when, I was at the point of begging him for more, he would plunge into me, sending me into an almost oblivious state.
Giving into my urge, I lie down onto my back staring at the ceiling. The only problem with closing my eyes is that I see him. I see Houston standing above me, at the foot of our bed. The way he would sometimes drag himself off of me, hovering over the bed simply devouring my body with his eyes. I can almost hear him, “Play with yourself Baby, come for me. Let me watch as your body blushes with desire.” Other times, he would ask, “What is it you want, Charli? Let me hear you say it.” Of course, my response would be, “You, Houston. I want you. I want you buried deep inside me. I want you to fuck me, to take me, however you want.”
At this moment, my body is giving so many mixed signals, if I hadn’t been tossing back the liquor these past days then I might just try and interpret what my body is saying. Turning into these flat pillows, my head, or maybe it’s my heart, wants to cry some more. Doesn’t really matter which it is, my swollen eyes say today’s tears are gone. Turning the television on, just to hear some noise I curl up into a ball.
Lying here in this cheap motel room, I imagine how I would feel if Mama was here. I know she would wrap her arm around me, pull me to her and just let me cry. She wouldn’t ask any questions. She would just sit with me. She would know that words are not what I need. A tear rolls down my cheek but I’m not sure if it is for Houston or for Mama.
Houston Donovan
Standing with his back to the room, looking out across the Atlantic, Houston raises his Lexington whiskey glass to his lips and takes a long slow drink, of the amber liquid. “What the hell do you mean you can’t find her? I need to know that she is alright. Did you use the tracker?”
Walking across the room to stand beside him Nash places his hand on Houston’s shoulder. “Houston, calm down man and listen to me.” Without moving a muscle, in a voice edged with tension through clinched teeth, Houston says “Get your hand off me Nash.”
Shaking his head in almost total disbelief that his friend is responding this way, Nash answers, “What do you think? Of course, I used the tracker on her car. This isn’t my first time attempting to locate someone. You know that, Houston.”
Looking over at Jeff as he walks away stopping at the back of the room near the elevator, Nash shakes his head as if he is in shock. Turning around to face his friend and employer, he stands hand over hand just waiting. Nash mumbles what he is thinking to Jeff, “I have seen him through a lot of situations but I have never seen him this messed up. Damn, Penny.”
Turning away from the window toward his two closest confidants standing across the room, once again he breaks his vow of not looking at the table where his life became a mess, Finally, Houston speaks barely being civil, “I know the both of you all too well. Stop attempting to manage me. Give me all the information that you have about Charli. Where is the damn car?” Walking to his desk, he makes a mental note to get all new furniture for this office. Even the damn chair has memories of her. “Will you at least tell me that?”
Jeff and Nash exchange glances. Holding his hand up Jeff says, “I’ll answer that, Nash.” Preparing for the response that will follow, Jeff continues, “Right now it is in the Miami/Dade County lot.”
Leaning back in the Italian leather desk chair, I ask “It is where?”
Jeff frowns, “Miami/Dade County tow lot.” Raising his hand to stop Houston from speaking, “Before you ask, it was towed from The Museum and Gardens of Biscayne two days ago. We pulled the footage of the parking lot. All you can see is a woman with large sunglasses wearing a hat get out of the car and walk off.” Looking over at Nash, Jeff continues, “We have looked at the footage extensively, it was not her that left the car there.” Nash adds, “I believe it was Lana. She resembles Charli. Lana denies that she left the car but I have no doubt it was her.”
I don’t care what it takes, find her. Make sure she is alright. Are you sure she isn’t with Lana or any of her other friends?” Houston asks. “No, we’ve had eyes on Rose, Lana and Joan. She isn’t with any of them. I’ve given her number to tech and she hasn’t made any calls either. They know if her number is active to contact either Jeff or myself immediately”
“It is evident you both know your jobs. Hell, I wouldn’t be paying you the outrageous amount of money I do if I didn’t believe you are the best. What about Penny? Where is the bitch? Knowing her, she has flown in, made my life a living hell and took off for some place halfway around the world.”
“Well, you are close. She left Miami three days ago. As of this morning, she was visiting “friends” in Greece. Crete to be exact. We also have eyes on her. We dropped the ball on her, Houston, for that I am sorry man. She hadn’t been around in what over a year closer to two. The only excuse we have is we just got lax about Penny. We both can assure you, neither of us will make that mistake again.” Scowling just a little as he takes another drink of forty year old scotch Houston adds, “Well, that isn’t exactly true. I ran into her about six months ago here in Miami. As a matter of fact, it was the day I met Charli or actually the night I first had any contact with her.”
Simultaneously, Jeff and Nash respond with, “What?” Nash continues as he scratches his forehead, “I vaguely remember a conversation about you sending someone home after a sexual encounter. Shit, Houston she is not who you sent home is it?”
Scowling before throwing back another drink, “yes,” Houston answers in a tone that suggests he is disgusted with himself. Continuing, “I was at Billy’s that night, contemplating which direction I would take in dealing with some pending legal action that Highland Diversified might possibly be facing. The next thing I know, guess who appears in front of me? Three guesses and the first two don’t count. She was there. We talked. She almost seemed like the old Penny. It wasn’t until later back at Dade 303 that I knew the piranha was alive. Besides, I she served a purpose that night.”
“Damn it, Houston! Why didn’t you share this small piece of very important information? We would have at least had an idea that she had been sniffing around,” Nash questions.
Running his hand through his hair, Houston replies, “God, I was so stupid that night.”
Shaking his head, he continues, “The things I did when I was young are coming back to haunt me. Damn! We all got lax about her. I thought she had decided to sign the papers and end this farce. At least that is what she implied at the bar. Then, we got back here and the rest is history as they say.”
Jeff shakes his head, looks at Houston and responds, “Thinking with the wrong head again.”
Chapter 2
Charli
What the hell am I doing? I have just spent day five in this dingy place wallowing in self pity. T
his is not who I am. Standing, I walk over to find my last bottle is near the bottom. Unscrewing the top, lifting the bottle, I swallow draining it. Swaying to the left just a little as I head toward the door I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stop to really examine what is looking back at me. I might have just experienced a horrible breakup, but it is in no way the worst thing that has happened to me. I realize as I turn away from the image of a woman that has hair so tangled it might possibly take a lifetime to smooth it.
Walking to the place where some clothes are hanging, I wonder where they came from. As I focus on them, somewhere in my mind, I vaguely remember my best friend and business partner, Lana Lewis, being here. Looking around, my eyes land on the items on the counter by the sink. Stripping, as I head toward the shower, my mind wanders to one of the showers I had with Houston.
Closing my eyes, as I lean my head back into the water, allowing memories to consume me, I hear the soulful sounds, of some artist that I never really knew the name of in the background.
“Turn around to face me, Baby. Let the water run down that gorgeous backside of yours.”
As I turn around, I find a hint of a smile on that normally serious face. Grabbing my waist with soap slick hands, Houston pulls me to him so we are just out of the spray. Slowly moving his hands upward, he cups my breasts gently squeezing them. His hands move to my bottom, where a small moan escapes my lips.
“Damn, Charli, your ass fits perfectly into my hands.” Stepping a little closer to me causes our hot, wet bodies to become pressed together almost as one. Nibbling on my neck just a little, he asks, “Do you trust me?”
Lost in this feeling, I barely can get the answer out as I mumble, “Yes.”
As he takes a small step I feel the spray on my back. His hands slowly move up my body, stopping to caress my aching breasts he whispers in my ear, “Close your eyes and raise your hands over your head.” Following his direction without hesitation, I raise my hands above my head, as the firm yet gentle touch of Houston’s hands move upward. I feel something slip over both of my wrists that feels soft yet rubbery. Trying to pull my arms down, I can’t. My eyes fly open, as I say, “What is that? Why can’t I move my arms?”